My mother nods sagely. “Very good advice.”
Of course, neither of us is listening. Ayoola has never needed help in the men department, and I know better than to take life directions from someone without a moral compass.
BRACELET
Tade comes to pick her up, Friday at seven. He is on time, but, of course, Ayoola is not. In fact, she has not even showered yet—she is stretched out on her bed laughing at videos of auto-tuned cats.
“Tade is here.”
“He is early.”
“It’s past seven.”
“Oh!”
But she doesn’t move an inch. I go back downstairs to tell Tade she is getting ready.
“No problem, there’s no rush.”
My mum is sitting opposite him, beaming from ear to ear, and I join her on the sofa.
“You were saying?”
“Yes, I am passionate about real estate. My cousin and I are building a block of flats in Ibeju-Lekki. It’ll take another three months or so to conclude the construction, but we already have takers for five of the flats!”
“That’s amazing!” she cries, as she calculates his worth. “Korede, offer our guest something.”
“What would you like? Cake? Biscuits? Wine? Tea?”
“I wouldn’t want to put you out of your way…”
“Just bring everything, Korede.” So I get up and go to the kitchen, where the house girl is watching Tinsel. She jumps up when she sees me and assists in ransacking the larder. When I return with the goodies, Ayoola still has not appeared.
“This is delicious,” Tade exclaims after taking his first bite of the cake. “Who made this?”
“Ayoola,” my mum says quickly, shooting me a warning look. It is a stupid lie. It is a pineapple upside-down cake, sweet and soft, and Ayoola couldn’t fry an egg to save her life. She rarely enters the kitchen, except to forage for snacks or under duress.
“Wow,” he says, chewing happily. He is delighted by the news.
I see her first because I am facing the stairs. He follows my eyeline and twists his body around to see. I hear him suck in his breath. Ayoola is paused there, allowing herself to be admired. She is wearing the flapper dress she was sketching a few weeks ago. The gold beads blend wonderfully with her skin. Her dreads have been plaited into one long braid draped over her right shoulder and her heels are so high, a lesser woman would have already fallen down the stairs.
Tade stands up slowly and walks to meet her at the foot of the staircase. He brings out a long velvet box from his inner suit pocket.
“You look beautiful…This is for you.”
Ayoola takes the gift and opens it. She smiles, lifting the gold bracelet so Mum and I can see.
TIME
#FemiDurandIsMissing has been sidelined by #NaijaJollofvsKenyanJollof. People may be drawn to the macabre, but never for very long, and so news of Femi’s disappearance has been trumped by conversations about which country’s jollof rice is better. Besides, he was almost thirty, not a child. I read the comments. Some people say he probably got fed up and left Lagos. Some suggest that perhaps he killed himself.
In an effort to keep people caring about Femi, his sister has started posting poetry from his blog—www.wildthoughts.com. I can’t help but read them. He was very talented.
I found the quiet
In your arms;
The nothing that I search for
Daily.
You are empty
And I am full.
Fully drowning.
I wonder if this poem was about her. If he knew—
“What are you looking at?”
I slam the lid of my laptop closed. Ayoola is framed in the doorway of my bedroom. I narrow my eyes at her.
“Tell me what happened with Femi again,” I ask her.
“Why?”
“Just humor me.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. It’s upsetting to think about.”
“You said he was aggressive toward you.”
“Yes.”
“As in, he grabbed you?”
“Yes.”
“And you tried to run?”
“Yes.”
“But…there was a stab wound in his back.”
She sighs. “Look, I was afraid and then I kinda saw red. I don’t know.”
“Why were you afraid?”
“He was threatening me, threatening to, like, hit me and stuff. He had me cornered.”
“But why? Why was he so angry?”
“I don’t…I don’t remember. I think he saw some messages from a guy on my phone or something and he just flipped.”
“So he cornered you, how did you get to the knife? It was in your bag, wasn’t it?”
She pauses. “I…I don’t know…it was all a blur. I’d take it back if I could. I’d take it all back.”
THE PATIENT
“I want to believe her. I want to believe it was self-defense…I mean the first time, I was furious. I was convinced Somto deserved it. And he had been so…slimy—always licking his lips, always touching her. I caught him scratching himself down there once, you know.”
Muhtar doesn’t stir. I imagine he tells me that scratching your balls is not a crime.
“No, of course not. But it’s in character, I mean his whole…just sliminess and overall dirtiness made it easy to believe the things she accused him of. Even Peter was…dodgy. Said he did ‘business’ and always answered your questions with one of his own.” I lean back, and close my eyes. “Everyone hates that. But Femi…he was different…”
Muhtar wonders how different he could have been. After all, it sounds as if he was obsessed with Ayoola’s looks, just like Peter and Somto.
“Everyone is obsessed with her looks, Muhtar…”
He tells me he isn’t, and I laugh. “You’ve never even seen her.”
The door suddenly opens and I jump out of the chair. Tade walks into the room.
“I thought I’d find you here.” He looks down at Muhtar’s unconscious body. “You really care about this patient, don’t you?”
“His family doesn’t visit him as much as they used to.”
“Yes, it’s sad. But it’s the way of things, I guess. Apparently he was a professor.”
“Is.”
“What?”
“Is. You said ‘was.’ Past tense. He isn’t dead. Not yet, anyway.”
“Oh! Yes. My bad. Sorry.”
“You said you were looking for me?”
“I…I haven’t heard from Ayoola.” I sit back down in the chair. “I’ve called several times. She isn’t picking up.”
I have to admit, I am a little embarrassed. I haven’t told Muhtar about Ayoola and Tade and I feel his pity strongly. I find myself blushing.
“She isn’t great at returning calls.”
“I know that. But this is different. I haven’t spoken to her in two weeks…Can you talk to her for me? Ask her what I’ve done wrong.”
“I’d rather not get involved…”
“Please, for me.” He crouches and grabs my hand, drawing it to his heart and holding it there. “Please.”
I should say no, but the warmth of his hands around mine makes me feel dizzy, and I find myself nodding.
“Thank you. I owe you one.”
With that, he leaves Muhtar and me to our devices. I feel too ridiculous to stay long.
CLEANER
Femi’s family sent a cleaner to his home, to ready it to be put on the market—to move on, I guess. But the cleaner discovered a bloody napkin down the back of the sofa. It’s all there on Snapchat, for the world to see that whatever happened to Femi, it did not happen of his own volition. The family is asking again for answers.
Ayoola tells me she may have sat there
. She may have put the napkin on the seat to keep from staining the sofa. She may have forgotten about it…
“It’s fine, if they ask me I’ll just tell them he had a nosebleed.” She is sitting in front of her dressing table tending to her dreadlocks and I am standing behind her, clenching and unclenching my fists.
“Ayoola, if you go to jail—”
“Only the guilty go to jail.”
“First of all, that’s not true. Second of all, you killed a man.”
“Defending myself; the judge will understand that, right?” She pats her cheeks with blusher. Ayoola lives in a world where things must always go her way. It’s a law as certain as the law of gravity.
I leave her to her makeup and sit at the top of the staircase, my forehead resting on the wall. My head feels as though there is a storm brewing inside it. The wall should be cool, but it is a hot day, so there is no comfort to be had there.
When I’m anxious, I confide in Muhtar—but he is in the hospital, and there is no one to share my fears with here. I imagine for the millionth time how it would go if I were to tell my mother the truth:
“Ma…”
“Hmmm.”
“I want to talk to you about Ayoola.”
“Are you people fighting again?”
“No, ma. I…there was an incident with erm Femi.”
“The boy who is missing?”
“Well, he isn’t missing. He is dead.”
“Hey!!! Jésù ṣàánú fún wa o!”
“Yes…erm…but you see…Ayoola was the one who killed him.”
“What is wrong with you? Why are you blaming your sister?”
“She called me. I saw him…I saw his body, I saw the blood.”
“Shut up! Does this look like something you should be joking about?”
“Mum…I just…”
“I said shut up. Ayoola is a beautiful child with a wonderful temperament…Is that it? Is it jealousy that is making you say these horrible things?”
No, there is no point in involving my mother. It would be the death of her, or she would flat out deny that it could have happened. She would deny it even if she was the one who had been called upon to bury the body. Then she would blame me for it because I am the older sister—I am responsible for Ayoola.
That’s how it has always been. Ayoola would break a glass, and I would receive the blame for giving her the drink. Ayoola would fail a class, and I would be blamed for not coaching her. Ayoola would take an apple and leave the store without paying for it, and I would be blamed for letting her get hungry.
I wondered what would happen if Ayoola were caught. If, for once, she were held responsible for her actions. I imagine her trying to blag her way out of it and being found guilty. The thought tickles me. I relish it for a moment, and then I force myself to set the fantasy aside. She is my sister. I don’t want her to rot in jail, and besides, Ayoola being Ayoola, she would probably convince the court that she was innocent. Her actions were the fault of her victims and she had acted as any reasonable, gorgeous person would under the circumstances.
“Madam?”
I look up; the house girl is standing before me. She is holding a glass of water. I take it from her and hold it to my forehead. The glass is ice cold and I close my eyes and sigh. I thank her and she leaves as silently as she came.
* * *
—
There is banging, loud frenzied banging, in my head. I groan and roll over, unwilling to wake up. I am lying in my bed, fully dressed. It is dark and the banging is coming from the door and not my head. I sit up, trying to fight the still-strong effects of the painkiller I took. I walk to the door and unlock it. Ayoola pushes past me.
“Shit, shit, shit. They saw us!”
“What?”
“See!” Ayoola shoves her phone in my face and I take it from her. She is on Snapchat, and the video I am looking at has the face and shoulders of Femi’s sister in the shot. Her makeup is impeccable but her look is somber.
“Guys, a neighbor has come forward. He didn’t say anything before because he didn’t think it mattered, but now that he’s heard about the blood, he wants to tell us everything he knows. He says he saw two women leave my brother’s apartment that night. Two! He couldn’t see them too clearly, but he is pretty certain one of them is Ayoola—the babe who was dating my brother. Ayoola didn’t tell us about a second woman with her…Why would she lie?”
I feel a chill race up and down my body.
Ayoola abruptly snaps her fingers. “You know what? I’ve got it!”
“Got what?”
“We’ll tell them you were doing him behind my back.”
“What?!”
“And I came in and discovered you and I ended it with him and you followed me out. But I didn’t say anything ’cause I didn’t want to bad-mouth someone who had…”
“You are unbelievable.”
“Look, I know it paints you in a poor light, but it’s better than the alternative.”
I shake my head, hand her the phone and open the door for her to leave.
“Okay. Okay…how about we say you came over ’cause he called you to intervene between us. I wanted to end things and he thought you could convince me not to…”
“Or…how about, he wanted to end things with you and you thought I could intervene between the two of you and you were just too embarrassed to say.”
Ayoola bites her lips. “Would people really believe that, though?”
“Get out.”
BATHROOM
Alone in my room, I pace.
Femi’s parents have the money needed to rouse the curiosity and professionalism of the police. And now they have a focus for their fear and confusion. They will want answers.
For the first time in my adult existence, I wish he was here. He would know what to do. He would be in control, every step of the way. He wouldn’t allow his daughter’s grievous error to ruin his reputation—he would have had this whole matter swept under the rug weeks ago.
But then it is doubtful Ayoola would have engaged in these activities had he been alive. The only form of retribution she ever feared was the one that came from him.
I sit down on my bed and think through the night of Femi’s death. They fight, or something. Ayoola has her knife on her, since she carries it the way other women carry tampons. She stabs him, then leaves the bathroom to call me. She places the napkin on the sofa and sits on it. She waits for me. I arrive, we move the body. That is the moment we were most exposed. As far as I can tell, no one witnessed us moving the body, but I can’t be 100 percent certain.
There is nothing out of place in my room, nothing to organize or clean. My desk has my laptop on it and my charger is neatly wound up and secured with a cable tie. My sofa faces the bed, its seat free of clutter, unlike the one in Ayoola’s room that is basically drowning in dress patterns and different colored fabrics. My bed is turned down and the sheets are tightly tucked. My cupboard is shut, concealing clothes folded, hung and arranged according to color. But you can never clean a bathroom too many times, so I roll up my sleeves and head to the toilet. The cabinet under the sink is filled with everything required to tackle dirt and disease—gloves, bleach, disinfectant wipes, disinfectant spray, sponge, toilet bowl cleaner, all-purpose cleaner, multi-surface cleaner, bowl brush plunger and caddy, and odor-shield trash bags. I slip on the gloves and take out the multi-surface cleaner. I need some time to think.
QUESTIONS
They send the police over to question Ayoola. I guess Femi’s family is done playing nice. The officers come to our house, and my mother asks me to bring them refreshments.
Minutes later, the three of us—Ayoola, Mum and I—and the two policemen are seated at the table. They are eating cake and drinking Coke, showering us with crumbs as they ask their questions. The younger o
ne is stuffing his mouth as though he has not eaten in days, despite the fact that the chair can barely contain his girth.
“So he invited you over to his house?”
“Yes.”
“And then your sister came?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Yes or no, ma.”
“Yes.”
I have asked her to keep her answers short and to the point, to avoid lying as much as she can, and to maintain eye contact.
* * *
—
When she informed me they were coming, I hustled Ayoola to our father’s study.
Empty of books and memorabilia, it was just a musty space with a table, an armchair and a rug. It was gloomy, so I pulled back a curtain—the bright light revealed dust motes floating all around us.
“Why did you bring me here?”
“We need to talk.”
“Here?” There were no distractions—no bed for Ayoola to lie on, no TV to draw her eyes and no material to fiddle with.
“Sit down.” She frowned but complied. “When did you see Femi last?”
“What?! You know when I—”
“Ayoola, we need to be ready for these questions.” Her eyes widened, and then she smiled. She leaned back.
“Don’t lean back, you don’t want to look too relaxed. An innocent person would still be tense. Why did you kill him?” She stopped smiling.
“Would they really ask that?”
“They may want to trip you up.”
“I didn’t kill him.” She looked me straight in the eye as she said it.
* * *
—
Yes, I remember now, I didn’t have to teach her to maintain eye contact. She was already a pro.
My Sister, the Serial Killer Page 6
